The Artist Who Painted a City

Out on the Burley Road, where the last vestiges of the city of Leeds slowly dissolve into the Yorkshire countryside, there is a barn in the middle of a field. It stands there, alone, the size of a garden shed, in a patch of land demarcating the boundary between a pet grooming salon and a dog park.

For a long time, it was about as unremarkable as any structure can be. A barn, in a field, in a part of the world where there are a lot of barns and a lot of fields. And then one day, a year ago or so, it changed. One side, the side that faces you as you head down the hill, was suddenly covered with a striking, monochrome mural of Marcelo Bielsa.

What caught the eye most, perhaps, was the incongruity between the work and its location. Bielsa’s face, solemn and bespectacled, emerging out of nowhere, watching over all he surveyed — which, in this case, amounted to a succession of dogs at varying stages of cleanliness — gave it the air of a border post, a territorial marker. This field was Bielsa country, it proclaimed.

In the days after the curtain was drawn on Bielsa’s three-and-a-half year tenure as manager of Leeds United, the discussion focused — understandably — on the state in which he had left the team. Had the Argentine coach’s famously exacting methods, his ideological intransigence, left the club at genuine risk of relegation? Or was his dismissal a premature reaction to a tough run of games and an ongoing injury crisis that had deprived a small squad of key players?

Much more significant, though, was how he had left Leeds the place. It can be easy, at times, to overstate the impact that soccer has on a city, a country, a population as a whole. A team’s success or failure is assumed to have some seismic effect on its home; the sport has sufficient hubris to believe that the mood of millions hinges on its every turn.

Bielsa’s impact on Leeds, though, has a physical form. The mural on the Burley Road was not the only piece of urban artwork that has appeared in recent years. There is another portrait of Bielsa in Wortley, close to the club’s Elland Road stadium, in which the Argentine is depicted as Christ the Redeemer.

In Headingley — which is a bit like Brooklyn, except it is better, because it has a cricket ground and a Greggs — Bielsa’s image is accompanied by one of his axioms: “A man with new ideas is a madman, until his ideas triumph.” In the city center, there is a vast depiction of Kalvin Phillips, the club’s homegrown idol, around the corner from the Victorian grandeur of the Corn Exchange.

And all over the city there are electrical boxes — those grim and gray pieces of street furniture that our eyes erase from our vision — that have been daubed in the club’s colors, blue and white and yellow, and decorated with its slogans and its iconography by the street artist Andy McVeigh.

All of that has happened since Bielsa arrived, since he brought a somnolent club to life, since he imposed order on a decade and a half of chaos. By the standards of modern soccer, where the superclubs weigh their trophies by the ton, Bielsa’s legacy is a thin one. He won promotion from the Championship. He guided Leeds to ninth in the Premier League, and left it fretting over relegation. He did not deliver a litany of medals, an era of glory.

What he did was far less tangible, but much more important. He gave Leeds an identity. He did not simply make the fans fall in love with their club again, he gave them something to stand for, to represent, to call their own. He made Leeds an emblem of a style, a belief, an approach. And in doing so, he lifted the place it called home.

Often, those sorts of assertions are difficult to prove. Not in this case. Bielsa, in a very real sense, has left Leeds a much more colorful place than he found it.

That is not, of course, necessarily ideal for his replacement. Jesse Marsch might have exactly the sort of background that most English clubs now expect — an alumnus of the New York Red Bulls, Red Bull Salzburg and RB Leipzig, steeped in the principles of the German pressing game, de rigueur among the denizens of the Premier League — but he lacks Bielsa’s gravitas, his reputation and, most immediately, his emotional bond with the fans, with the city.

That is not the only obstacle in Marsch’s path. Whether there are enough American coaches in European soccer is not, in truth, an especially pressing question: Chances certainly seem to fall more easily to them than they do to, for example, African coaches, or those working outside the bounds of the continent.

The challenge, instead, is in the perception. Chris Armas, another graduate of the Red Bull school, was nicknamed “Ted Lasso” within a few weeks of arriving at Manchester United as an assistant to Ralf Rangnick. The same punchline was trending within minutes of Marsch’s appointment at Leeds.

Bob Bradley, scarred by his experiences at Swansea City, found it surprising just how much controversy was stirred by his use of certain terms — “P.K.” instead of penalty, say — or his pronunciations: He made a conscious effort to say “defence,” instead of “defence,” and never to refer to the Premier League.

If he is to succeed, Marsch will have to overcome that same stigma, to make sure he does not fall into any of the linguistic traps that await him. Even if he does so, he will know, most likely, that he will never inspire the same sort of adoration that was awarded to Bielsa. Bielsa was the man, after all, who took Leeds United home. Marsch will never be able to match that.

Perhaps, though, Marsch’s predecessor offers the perfect illustration of the nature of the task at hand. Bielsa’s success was not measured in silver and gold, but painted in blue and yellow and white. His rewards were not prizes, but portraits. He won them because he gave a club, and a city, something to be proud of, something to believe in. He made the place more colorful. Marsch’s task, any manager’s task, is to do the same.

The Model Owner

Roman Abramovich changed far more than Chelsea. His impact on English — on global — soccer extends way beyond his taking a glamorous pretender and transforming it into the most consistently successful English club of the 21st century. It is not just Stamford Bridge that has lived under the “Roman Empire,” as the Russian flag that adorns the stadium’s Matthew Harding Stand has it, for the last two decades. We all have.

It was Abramovich’s arrival, those first few years of apparently bottomless spending, that triggered an inflationary spiral that pushed transfer fees and salaries across Europe ever higher, that winnowed down the number of clubs able to compete first for talent, then for trophies, that pushed some of the old elite into irrelevance and others to the brink of something far worse.

It was, in no small part, because of Abramovich that European soccer felt moved to introduce some form of financial fair play legislation. It was, in no small part, because of Abramovich that Chinese conglomerates and Gulf states and all manner of princelings decided soccer was the place to put their money, to service their egos, to launder their reputations.

And, most of all, it was Abramovich who provided the model of the ideal owner to fans all over the world. Ever since he appeared, out of nowhere, in 2003, fans of countless clubs have craved the appearance of their own Abramovich, someone possessed of an impossible fortune who appears happy to fritter as much of it away as necessary in the pursuit of success.

The pervasiveness of his example is evident in the response to his decision, this week, to put Chelsea up for sale. That Chelsea’s fans regard him as a good owner, a fond memory, a silent idol, is not at all surprising. Look at what he has given them. That those with no attachment to the club persist on giving him the same assessment is astonishing.

Yes, Abramovich pumped money in whenever it was required. Yes, he delivered trophies on an industrial scale. Yes, he has turned his club into not just a state-of-the-art superpower, but a vehicle for some admirable charitable initiatives, particularly as regards fighting anti-Semitism and promoting Holocaust education.

And yes, it is possible, if you wish, to ignore the questions that linger over all of it: Why? Why did he do all of that? What was the purpose? Was it really that he fell in love with soccer after watching Ronaldo and Real Madrid destroy Manchester United? Did he just want a shortcut to British high society? Or was it something else? If so, what? Why has all of this happened?

But it should not be possible to exclude from discussion of his legacy the manner of his imminent departure. Because of Abramovich, Chelsea may still stand under threat of the impact of the economic sanctions (very and possibly conveniently slowly) being imposed on Russia’s oligarchs by the British government.

Because of Abramovich, Chelsea is now in the process of being sold effectively as a distressed asset. He has said he will not “fast-track” the sale, but the fact that his advisers appear to have reached out to whoever they can think of, and set a deadline of only a few days for bids, rather suggests he does not have the months such a process would ordinarily take.

Abramovich, make no mistake, does not have the time to make sure he is passing “custodianship” of the club to precisely the right people. He will sell it to whoever offers him the most money. And that money, at his current asking price, will cover much of the $2 billion or so he has given Chelsea over the years. Abramovich will not be out of pocket.

This is not, put simply, what a good owner does. A good owner does not put a club in this sort of political position. A good owner does not sell in a hurry. A good owner does not cut and run because a war instigated by a despot he insists he has absolutely no connection to changes the world overnight. Chelsea’s fans will treasure the memories Abramovich has given them. It has, they say, been a beautiful romance. But a romance cannot be detached from the way it ends.

Correspondence

Last week’s column on soccer’s relationship with money, and with Russia, elicited quite the flurry of responses. Many of them were kind, and as such very difficult for a British person to mention without blushing.

“Before it’s too late, can you do another update on Newcastle, and their craven, spineless, unprincipled ownership?” asked Paul Bender, suggesting the club’s nickname might be changed from the “Magpies” to the “Bone Saws.” Newcastle, though, is only one example. Soccer has to reassess its relationship with money on some fundamental level.

Fans can lead that conversation. “I had no idea that my beloved (and much despaired) Everton were sponsored by a Russian oligarch,” John MacMillan wrote. “I’d assumed our training ground ‘USM Finch Farm’ was just the location’s proper name and not an ersatz emblem of corporate sponsorship.”

I suspect more will be reported on this in the coming days, but Everton’s situation is a complex and a serious one, unfortunately. The companies linked to Alisher Usmanov that the club has “suspended” — not good enough, thanks — its relationships with were responsible for a vast portion of its commercial income. Farhad Moshiri, the Everton chairman, is the chief executive of one of those companies. It feels fragile, and unsustainable.

Thomas Jakobsh, meanwhile, asks a very pertinent question. “I fully share your disappointment, outrage, and shame at how our game has been manipulated and debased,” he wrote. “But where do you draw the line, the one that demarcates the grifters, thugs and opportunists? On which side of the line does someone like Silvio Berlusconi fall? As for nation states, on which side of the line does one place Qatar, the U.A.E., or Azerbaijan?”

This is the complication, of course. How can anyone have known that Berlusconi was not just a media magnate looking for acclaim, but an aspirant politician using soccer as a vehicle? There is a reason, unpalatable as it may be, that FIFA and UEFA are not keen to arbitrate conflicts: If Russia has to be banned for invading Ukraine, why not ban Saudi Arabia for inflicting countless casualties in its war in Yemen? This is a cop-out, but I have no idea where the line is, or should be. I just believe there has to be one.

And, on the other side of the coin, there’s Tom Karsay. “Surely you’re not serious about that column. You know, whether the Ukraine invasion is worse than, say, the machine-gunning of Iraqi civilians by U.S. contractors, or any of the myriad other atrocities across the globe committed by FIFA nations. Your column is biased and lacks any depth. Stick to football.”

I realize nobody reads this newsletter for the geopolitical analysis, so I won’t offer my two cents on how Ukraine and Iraq differ, if they differ at all. But there is something Tom misses, I think: The American sponsors of soccer competitions are not backed by the American state. American owners of teams do not act as proxies for the government or serve as the power base for a tyrant.

Soccer is vulnerable when those who are not in it just for the sport, or just to make money out of the sport, are involved. That is when the actions of countries stain the name of a team. And that is where we should draw the line.

That’s all for this week. All correspondence is welcome at askrory@nytimes.com, even if you have not enjoyed what you’ve read. The standard of criticism is still higher than it is on Twitter. There’ll be a new episode of European Nights, with Roger Bennett of Men in Blazers, ahead of the return of the Champions League next week, too.

Have a great weekend, and keep safe.

Rory